Star Trek Heronas  The Betazoid Connection
by Snorpenbass
Summary: A trip to Betazoid to help T'Pol convalesce and heal her long-standing ailments gets the crew of the Heronas caught up in a gruesome mystery. Who is the Betazoid Strangler, and what is its connection to our favorite couple?
1. Chapter 1

**Prologue**

…

"_They declared me unfit to live, _

_said into that great void my soul'd be hurled_

_They wanted to know why I did what I did _

_Well sir I guess there's just a meanness in this world."_

-Bruce Springsteen, "Nebraska"

…

_**Betazed.**_

Miriana Serai woke early, her head still throbbing from the night before. There had been copious amounts of wine and sweetbreads and that oh so handsome young Andorian who had been shy and nervous all evening until she got him drunk enough, and then...and then...oh, right. _Surwela_ had swooped in and snagged him right out from under her, taking advantage of the fact that Miriana had also been quite drunk at the time.

Oh, well, all was fair in love and war. Besides, she had done the same to Surwela just the week before, seducing that distant cousin of hers while Wela was in the bathroom.

Someone was playing music. Loudly. She frowned.

_-Do you mind?_

A light giggle could be heard from the kitchen, then a thought back.

_-Mind what, Miri dearest?_

Miriana groped about for a pillow, then threw it at the sound system, triggering the safety shutdown.

_-Hey! I was listening to that!_

_-You were just trying to annoy me, Keli, and you know it._

Her little sister popped her head out the kitchen door and stuck her tongue out.

_-I wouldn't be able to if you hadn't drank so much last night. Tell me, what would mother dearest say if she knew what you were up to at nights, hm?_

Miriana shrugged. "She'd ask me why I haven't inherited her sense for alcohol. You should hear the stories they tell about her."

_-Really, Miri, loud-speak? Might as well go pretend you're a grumpy Vulcan._

She held back a sneer. Kelienna was not...sound of mind, lately. She belonged to the ever-growing Returner movement, a mildly xenophobic group that preached a return to 'traditional Betazed values', which apparently included practicing nudism at the drop of a hat, refusing to speak vocally to anyone if they could get away with it and generally ignoring the new mental intrusion laws and reading anyone's mind at whim, no matter if it was illegal or unethical or not. Some day, she suspected the Returners would be in majority. Especially if the damned House of Troi got their way.

And the House of Troi _always_ got their way.

"Telepathy hurts my brain at the moment. At least until I've rehydrated and gotten some protein in me."

_-I would have thought you got plenty of protein last night, eh? Eh?_

"Stop it. You're making my headache worse."

_-Whatever._

…

About an hour later, once she'd forced down half a liter of water and far too much greasy, protein-rich food into her system, Miriana was fully dressed and ready to get underway. The bank was entertaining a major client from the southern hemisphere, and she was supposed to brief them on the investment realities and tax loopholes.

Fun, fun, fun. Maybe she should bring a pillow.

She paused at a street vendor to pick up a lunch package, carefully wrapped in metal foil and boxed up for freshness, then grabbed the weekly financial news. Once again, the fact that the weapons industry was peaking made her frown in disgust. Humans were such a volatile species. Granted, they hadn't started it, but still. If it had been Betazoid attacked, they would have surrendered quickly, and endured until the occupation ended. It was the only real way to deal with conflicts on that scale. No empire lasted forever.

What else was news? Well, a Ferengi merchant had been caught smuggling near the system border, the pharmaceutical industry was gaining points, the Vulcans had withdrawn from several co-ventures after Returner interests had gained shares in them...the usual. Another gruesome murder in the slums near the spaceports, this one some poor alien with an unpronounceable name. How difficult was it for a police force consisting entirely of telepaths and empaths to track down a single murderer? Yet the murders continued. Four dead, so far. Men, women, Betazed, alien...whoever the killer was they didn't discriminate.

She took the shortcut through the park because the shade of the great trees within were soothing to her hangover, and paused once to catch her breath and enjoy the lovely weather. Being caught up in her own little world, she never noticed the shadow detaching itself from the dense foliage behind her, moving far quicker than any Betazoid could.

They found her body three hours later, literally folded in half and jammed into a sewage pipe by the park's artificial lake.

…

* * *

><p>…<p>

The USS Heronas came out of warp just off the shoulder of Beta Veldonna, slowing to impulse power and gliding surprisingly gracefully into a neat trajectory that would take it into orbit around the fifth planet in the system.

T'Pol was _not_ on the bridge.

Her 'migraines' had worsened during the night, and she had retreated to her quarters to go through any correspondence she had failed to read.

Some of it was newsletters she subscribed to. Her favorite jazz club in San Francisco was having a jubilee of sorts in honor of what humans called 'Mardi Gras'. She made a mental note to inform an old colleague at the Vulcan compound to attend and record the event with permission of the musicians. There were also various science essays, treatises and the likes for later perusal. She would transfer them to a padd and read them at her leisure when her head felt better.

A few were _personal_.

Hoshi Sato had sent her a short videogram of her and several other crew members making various exaggerated grimaces, jesting about Captain Tucker and T'Pol and acting highly illogical in a way that made her raise her eyebrow more than once. Hoshi had then added an extra few minutes of her on her own, where she bitterly complained that Lieutenant Commander _Mayweather_ was apparently oblivious to her overtures on the romantic plane. T'Pol pondered sending a message back asking her why she had given up on her apparent long-standing infatuation with Cmdr Reed, but then remembered that the young woman still had trouble admitting this particular thing. Even a Vulcan could tell, which made Hoshi's refusal to face up to it even more odd.

Then there was a message from Major Cole, asking in a somewhat roundabout and subtle way just as to how one approached a Vulcan male with romantic overtures. She drafted a short message to the woman that the man she was inquiring about in question was not only married, but also quite pleasantly so. She then, after a few seconds hesitation, added that Lt Cmdr Mayweather was, as far as she knew, available, should she be interested. She doubted it would work, though. The woman seemed to have a predilection for becoming interested only in males that were unattainable.

The third personal letter was the one she studied the most fervently.

_'Hey T'Pol._

_Thought I'd inform you on progress on a lot of things. There's been a wide spread of promotions, though I'm still just an ell-tee-cee myself. Half the bridge crew got bumped up the ladder, and Reed finally got the official word from up on high. You were right about him and Hoshi, I think, they're fairly clueless the both of them. Torino suggested we figure out a way to lock them both in the decon chamber, see what happens. I doubt they'll get the hint, though._

_The E-room is busy as always. I got the new calculations you sent me, you sure Trip wrote this? He's been keeping busy, hasn't he? Though I guess the neat math is from where you helped him. The man does love his redundant equations. Sam is fine, and Sam Jr recently learned to walk. I got a vid from home the other day, it's just a few steps so far but he's getting there. Hopefully he'll take after his father and not me. Psychiatrists are less likely to go on the frontlines._

_The captain has been grouchy for a while, missing his old dream team I bet. Still, Skon is adapting quickly, possibly a little quicker than you did, but then he's worked with humans before. He seems to have an odd sense of humor buried under that permanent blank expression of his. I heard him talking to Phlox the other day and apparently they were debating just what kind of human bonding ritual a 'snipe hunt' was. Phlox insisted it was one of camaraderie, a "jest that includes everyone", Skon is convinced it's just a standard practical joke and mentioned something about playing along until the right moment. They're both right, of course, but then humans can be tricky that way._

_Still, a Vulcan with comedic timing is rare when you're not around. He's already suggested to the captain that they teach Porthos to shake, to "aid in future diplomatic endeavors". The captain spent all evening mulling over if that one was a joke or not.'_

T'Pol had to pause her reading at that to raise an eyebrow in mild amusement. Adapting quickly indeed...

_'Well, I guess that's all, let me know when you get Trip back in line, don't let him think too much. When he thinks he starts making the wrong conclusions, and we don't want that._

_Your friend, Anna Hess.'_

She carefully pursed her lips and glanced at the paper roses standing in an otherwise empty vase on her desk. Well, things were-

_pain_

She blinked. When did she end up on the floor? Her knuckles were mildly bruised, probably where she had reflexively attempted to catch herself. So she had fallen. Chronometer showed only seconds had passed, and-

_pain_

Soft hands smelling faintly of ozone and plastic carried her gently from the floor and onto her bunk.

"...don't fade out on me again. I know it hurts, you're broadcasting kinda strongly...yeah, you definitely need help. Try to hang on for a little while longer, we're in orbit around Betazed, I called ahead to the specialist Phlox suggested, we can be there in..."

She wished he could speak faster. She'd be unconscious before he got to-

…

_**End Prologue...**_


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Yes, I'm back. My long absence is long, and has various reasons, one being moving cross-country and re-entering the halls of education. University to be exact. That's right, at the ripe old age of 35 I've gone back to school. It's fun, too. I'll try to bring you a chapter a week, but what with studies and all I can't make any real promises. Sorry (shuffles feet in embarrassment).

**Disclaimer: **I own none of the Enterprise characters. Only the crew of the Heronas and various characters introduced in these fics. I make no money off of this, so please don't sue me, Paramount.

…

* * *

><p>…<p>

_**Betazed, Beta Velonna.**_

_**Offices of Dr Herelus Castor.**_

T'Pol opened her eyes and frowned. Her head felt..._thick_. As if it had been wrapped in over-cooked plomeek soup. An interesting simile, though perhaps a tad emotional.

She could hear distant voices as if through a thick fog, one of the voices buzzing slightly in the back of her head in a strange form of reverberation, but above all she could sense what she could _not_ sense any longer.

The bond, however erratic and fleeting it had been lately, was gone.

She felt herself shiver as if with cold, trying to make sense of this sudden lack of sensation. There was some discomfort. The thought of the bond being entirely missing was...disturbing in its implications.

The voices ceased, and she heard footsteps. She was alone, trapped in an alien room. Trip was nowhere to be found. Waves of unfamiliar emotions boiled close to the surface, she had to _stop_ them, get back to her _mate_, she had to-

"Calm down! I'm right here, T'Pol, right here. Easy, easy now."

She grasped onto his arms in sheer desperation, unable to speak for fear of saying something she would regret, doing something violent to him again. Last time the result was a mild concussion. She did not particularly relish the thought of doing worse to him.

_the two of them in the showers, her hands around his throat, squeezing crushing killing_

T'Pol blinked as Trip wrapped both his arms tightly around her. "Shhh, easy now...I'm not going anywhere."

She closed her eyes.

…

The doctor himself was a portly little man, no taller than herself. He appeared entirely human apart from his eyes which were a pure black on white, characteristic of his species, and his bedside manner left abundantly much to be desired. She'd met _Vulcan_ physicians with more warmth.

"Oh, the _barbarism_...I can see attempts at self-regeneration, helped along with some kind of neural mind-to-mind interface that repaired the worst, most _obvious_ injuries, but this is just _appalling_, the sheer amount of stress inflicted..._heavens_, I haven't seen long-term damage like this since I aided in the recovery of those Andorian POW's...no, stay still. The numbing agent mutes the neural synapses active in your bond, it helps me in diagnosing, but moving around causes anomalies, so _don't_."

_Mutes?_

The doctor smirked self-importantly. "Certainly. Did you believe it was gone? We should _be_ so lucky. No, I have been informed in no uncertain terms that the two of you wish your bond _repaired_, which is trickier than simply removing it and letting your brain heal. Honestly, the brute force approach used by some species when approaching the extra-sensory is so _nauseatingly_ clumsy...how your species ever survived the past couple of centuries is a mystery."

His voice was beginning to grate on her ears. He also smelled vaguely like captain Archer's canine, though not as agreeable. Perhaps she should let him _know_ how her species survived when logic failed them...

Blue eyes stared into hers, full of concern. "Whoa, _don't_ do _that_."

_Trip? The bond?_

The doctor consulted some form of unfamiliar scans of her cranium taken at some point she did not remember. He didn't even bother turning around to answer her unspoken question. "No, he simply noticed your body language. I assume you meant me harm. That would be ill advised, since I know exactly how to heal you."

They both became still. Trip was the first to speak. "...you do?"

"Vulcans are..._quite_ intriguing, as a species. Did you know they might be the only known species, to date, who can re-arrange their own biology by pure force of will? Humans have a similar, limited phenomenon known as bio-feedback, but where some humans may train themselves to ignore pain or fold and bend their bodies, Vulcans actually alter parts of their own _genome_ as well. Archaeological digs from the time of their civil war has yielded some hotle debated evidence that only a mere thousand years ago, the people of Vulcan were slightly different genetically and physically from their modern day descendants. More pronounced brow ridges on their skulls to the point where they were visible through the epidermis, slightly differently shaped cerebral cavities, more prominent amygdalas..."

Trip glanced down at T'Pol. When he attempted to extricate himself from her grip, she held on even more firmly, though she didn't show any visible change in her features. Finally he seemed to give up and let her hold on tightly. "Could you get to the point, doc?"

"Oh. _Oh_! Certainly. The _point_, as you put it, is that it appears Vulcans can alter their own biological functions _somewhat_ within a few generations. It is a trait that is quite useful in a hostile environment such as their home world, and they have even ritualized some of this in their older traditions. Unfortunately, they're not so adaptive as to be able to handle _three_ physically draining and damaging changes to their body chemistry and brain architecture at once."

"...I beg your pardon?"

Doctor Castor smiled that annoying, smug smile again. "My dear boy, she's undergone _three_ rather traumatic alterations to her own brain in the past five years _alone_, did none of you even once consider that this might have harmful repercussions in the long run? Frankly, I'm surprised she's not a drooling vegetable at this point."

For the first time in the conversation, T'Pol reacted somewhat normally. She frowned, and stared at some vaguely defined point on the wall, and then asked in a low voice, "The first alteration would be the Pa'nar syndrome I suffered from, the second my prolonged exposure to Trellium-D...but what _third_ alteration are you speaking of?"

The doctor stared at her, then at Trip, then at her again. "Your telepathic bond, of course! Clumsy as it is. You both broadcast every single emotion and thought at one another as if using shortwave _radio_, and frankly it's rather tiring to shield myself from it. It's the true reason I gave you synaptic dampers, to be honest. Do you have _any_ idea how mind-numbingly painful it is to have to put up with that sort of nonsense?"

He sighed. "I swear, it's like talking to a mind-blind...look, the combination of an unstable, damaged bond in combination with previous damage from that toxic mineral and that _horrendously_ clumsy earlier mental intrusion simply combined to cause a degenerative condition. The reason your esteemed Denobulan fellow couldn't help you is because very few people listen to us Betazed when it comes to matters that touch onto the extrasensory talents and how they relate to biology.

"We've been an openly, dominantly telepathic society for thousands upon thousands of years, and we've experienced pretty much every possible variation on things that can go wrong with telepathy by now. All I had to do to solve your little problem was dust off my old freshman medical lexicons. Volume one."

For the first time in weeks, her bond-mate's face lost the light frown it had possessed. "Y'mean...you can _fix_ it? Fix _her_?"

"Why, _certainly_. A few weeks of regenerative treatments, a basic tune-up of her latent telepathic gifts to fix the cross-wired frequencies you two seem to have..._your_ brain is far simpler, it'll take me about three hours and a mild curative to fix _you_...but your first officer is going to have to stay with us for a little while. Not long, just a few days. Plenty of bed rest in an isolated chamber, a few mild analgesics for any pain, and no visitors."

Trip looked at T'Pol, smiling. Relief was blatant on his face, and she reached up with one hand to see if the expression was real. It had been so long since he had that smile. "I gotta say, that's the best news I heard in a _long_ time. Wait, _my_ brain? What's wrong with _my_-"

"Oh, dear. The reason you keep getting _her_ headaches and keep having confused dreams is because you're out of _tune_ with one another. Looks like a fairly clumsily removed telepathic block scrambled your patterns but good. It's easy enough to mend, of course." Doctor Castor grinned, and suddenly he wasn't quite so odious any more. "Though I will require three things-"

"Name it. _Anything_."

"Don't be so swift to agree, captain Tucker. Firstly, a sample of your cerebral fluids. Don't worry, the procedure is quite painless, though you may have a faint itch for a few days after. Second, while your _own_ damage is fairly easy to repair with that primitive human brain of yours, _hers_ is more extensive and complicated. As mentioned earlier she will require a brief period of convalescence."

They waited. Then T'Pol wet her tongue and rasped out the question they both had. "The third?"

"My _fee_. Have you ever heard of gold-pressed latinum?"

…

* * *

><p>…<p>

_**USS Heronas, Dog's Watch (0200-0800 Hours ship's time).**_

"...in small shifts of two crewmen at a time. At no time is the command crew to be at less than three. But that should be about it. Lord knows you've all deserved some R&R."

"Yessir. I'll get right on it." Sue Gordon nodded to the captain as the comms closed, resisting the urge to yawn. She _hated_ this shift. Mankind was not meant to be awake this early. They were meant to sleep on silk sheets and soft pillows and be served breakfast in bed by some hunky man wearing only a loin cloth.

Unfortunately for her it was daytime planetside, which meant she was in charge of explaining shore leave rules according to the dossier Nessler had pulled up on a padd. She smirked at the cramped notes in the margins. Even when he _wrote_ he was laconic.

_'If blatantly mind-read, raise concerns with nearest constable. Wears black uniform with red sash. Do not accept offers for visiting weddings.'_

Weddings? What was so weird about...she pulled up the file, and blushed. Oh. Definitely an unusual..._culture_.

Well, no time like the present. Ride that wave when it came, and whatever other clichés she could think of. She cleared her throat and activated the shipwide comms. Time to tell the crew they were getting some well-deserved shore leave...

…

The shuttle banked, and Trip resisted the urge to vomit with some difficulty. The 'cure' for him had involved swallowing some things that had tasted vaguely like licorice going down and much like week-old rotten beef stew coming up, and come up it did. Repeatedly. Then a round in some device where he had to sit still for ten minutes without moving while something blinking made a full circle around the old noggin, and then bam, done.

The headache was gone, though. The bond as well, but the doc had said it was only temporary. _Muted_, not gone.

_God, I hope so. I hate..._

He frowned. No, no throwing up right now. Apparently he was done for the moment.

_...I hate not knowing._

He watched the shuttlebay doors open as the craft slowed, and sighed. Maybe some day transporting would be as easy as pie, just set the coordinates and go there in an instant. That day would be far off. Hell, even with the projected technology curve the Daystrom Institute was handing out to engineers fleet-wide, it'd be at least a century and a half or more before transporting would be a thing of no major import. Some were claiming that transporting greater distances would be even further off, but then, some people had claimed mankind would never be able to travel faster than 50 miles per hour without dying horribly.

Hell, people had said faster-than-light travel was impossible without messing up causality. Showed what _they_ knew.

Still, the thought of being able to keep shuttles in their bay unless they were absolutely needed _was_ an attractive one. Even if the last time he got involved in transporter experiments the whole thing had ended badly. Unfortunately, installing a transporter on the Heronas meant clearing space somehow, and they were short on that as it was. For one thing, the guest quarters would have to be shrunk down to size, which removed about half the purpose of the whole ship. He'd sent a few refit designs to Starfleet already, focused on a few score square meters of extra room to toy with, but the process would be slow going. Especially during wartime.

The docking clamps latched on, and re-pressurizing, decontamination and security scans proceeded. It'd be five minutes before they could leave the pod. He stared out the small port window and compared the whole thing to the olden days with the Enterprise when they'd just walked right out, not even thinking about decon unless the environment they came from was unknown. That was before the Xindi. Add in the later occurrences of Romulan-hired spies and Starfleet had definite cause to go over the safety routines again.

And he was thinking about anything and everything except for what was worrying him.

Okay. _Thinking_ about it, then. So the combination of seven years of slowly added-to neural trauma had finally taken its toll. She could have died, or worse, be left brainless and vegetative for the rest of her life. And some smarmy Betazoid said he could fix it in a few days, a few weeks at worst. Where everyone else had thrown up their hands in defeat or not even noticed anything was seriously wrong, this guy said it was no biggie. Just take a few aspirin and call him in the morning.

He frowned as he remembered the way she'd been acting, so very unlike herself. To most who didn't know her she would probably still seem unemotional, perhaps a little distracted, but to him it had been like watching a wounded animal with her heart on her sleeve...it was uncanny, and frightening, and he realized that what he really hoped for, no, what he _wanted_ more than anything in the world was _not_ the nervous, fidgeting little thing the brain damage was turning her into, no, he wanted the strong woman she _ought_ to be. He didn't _want_ an overtly emotional person who had to depend on him for even her basic safety, he wanted the arrogant, headstrong, intelligent and logical being he had fallen in love with.

Part of it was a kind of jealousy, he supposed. With the bond, only he knew how she truly felt about anything, since she displayed no outward emotion whatsoever when she was truly herself.

...okay, the eyebrows were a dead giveaway, but only if you knew Vulcans. People really had no clue how many things they could express with a simple little tilt or a faint frown.

He blinked. "What?"

"I said we're clear to depart the shuttle, sir."

Trip poked his tongue into his cheek thoughtfully, then nodded. "Right."

…

"So what _are_ we doing here anyway?"

Eddie Sawyer cricked her neck. Sleeping regular hours again was taking its toll on her patience. People who had normal 24-hour day rhythms really had no concept of what altering that rhythm _did_ to a person. Now that she had eight-hour sleep periods again, she was having more trouble simply getting back into gear than she did actually staying awake two days at a time before. Once you flipped the clock or stretched it, getting back to a routine the body was built for was sort of complicated, and required a lot of home remedies.

Warm milk was right out. She was lactose intolerant. "Officially we're gonna wait here a while to pick up and ferry five medical research scientists to a conference on Denobula. Once there we'll pick up whoever Starfleet picked for our own resident sawbones, and then we have a charting mission in the area Boomers call Route 666. _That_ should be fun."

She waited patiently.

"...and unofficially?"

Ah. Wong had turned out to be _such_ a gossip, once he'd come out of his spiky shell.

"_Unofficially_, we're probably here because the captain had to _carry_ our first officer off the ship yesterday and is leaving her on the planet below for some unplanned forced R&R. But you didn't hear that from me and if you squeal I will make your life a living hell."

"Perish the thought." Wong fell silent for a while. "So did he carry her in a fireman's carry or-"

She snorted. "Lord above, Wong, you're never gonna let that one go? Seriously, you really think they're some kind of...what, a _couple_? You are _so_ off your rocker."

"Hey, _you're_ the one who thinks she was with Archer. Last _I_ heard he was seen making doe-eyes at commodore Hernandez, before _and_ after her promotion."

"Pshyeah, right. As if."

"I also heard our chief engineer is probably having something going on with our very own nails-chewing MACO CO...or rather, the other way around."

Her ears perked up. "..._really_? Well, well, well..."

Which was the precise moment Nessler chose to sit down at their table humming something unfamiliar. "...it's an open smile, on a friendly shore..."

"Nessler."

"Wong. Sawyer. Coffee." He waved the mug at them, then in a complete deadpan continued. "Table. Chairs."

"Very funny." Eddie leaned back, glaring at the comms officer.

He shrugged, sipped his coffee, and didn't say a word as he merely sat and listened while the conversation became more and more random as more crew members arrived for their final mess hall meal before leave.

…

* * *

><p>…<p>

_**Betazed, Beta Velonna.**_

_**Clinic of Dr Herelus Castor.**_

Her dreams were strange and sometimes involved sehlats dancing in a choreographed big production of a Busby Berkeley routine that she only recognized because Trip had insisted she watch one of his films once. She rarely remembered her dreams in the first place, Vulcans seldom did, a cause for the common misconception among many of them that they did not dream at all. These intruded on her waking, though, and spoke volumes of her neural pathways shutting down and firing up again as the various curatives did their work on her system.

There had been a sweat lodge, first. Or something very much akin to it. The temperature had been warm even for a Vulcan, enough to set the air itself trembling and enough to cook various foodstuffs. Once tests showed any harmful levels of hormones, endorphins and other substances - naturally occurring but perhaps normally in _smaller_ quantities - had lowered, she was given another set of curatives, then a cranial scan, then exposed to a device that looked similar to the dermal regenerator the Denobulans had shared with Earth but instead made her scalp feel numb while her mind briefly 'went on the fritz' as Trip would put it, and finally another round in the sweat lodge, more curatives, and then she was at last allowed to retreat to the isolation chamber.

Which locked from the inside, possibly to alleviate any privacy concerns patients might have due to the process being mentally draining and emotionally invasive. There was an emergency override, but only the lead physician could initiate it.

She managed to meditate for a full half hour, then slept four hours, and woke rested and relaxed, and quite in control of herself. Which, naturally, was where the physician had her go through _another_ round of the treatment. The faint hint of irritation she allowed herself to display was a good reminder that it was all quite necessary.

…

On the second night, her dreams turned truly odd. Gone were the kaleidoscopic sehlats in perfect formation, replaced instead by cramped, darkened corridors where a great Beast was stalking her, following, dragging its claws against the floor like savage blades, drawing sparks where they touched metal.

It wasn't until she reached a turbolift that never opened, would _never_ open, that she realized she was going to die here, that she was on the Heronas and she was alone and the Beast rose above her and the voice was so familiar, so horrifyingly familiar, and-

_-T'Pol.-_

She blinked her eyes open, finding that there was moisture on her cheeks. Not tears. Vulcan tear ducts did not truly allow for tears, since the secondary eyelids were the main shield for their eyes from drying or grit to the corneas. They simply did not produce enough tear fluid, though there were exceptions, as with all things.

It was sweat.

She frowned, sat up, and took note to remember the dream. Something unsettling about it suggested it was somehow important, and much more so than she might have pretended when she was younger and more foolish.

Then she lay back down, rolled over and went back to sleep.

…

* * *

><p>…<p>

_**Betazed, Beta Velonna.**_

_**Sazaerinian Markets.**_

"Holy...okay, this is too neat."

Crewman Jonsson turned to where Crewman Li was holding up some kind of glass painting. "Oh, right, exciting. So did you see any place where we could grab a bite to eat, or-"

"No, seriously, check this out. It's a...what was it called?"

The salesman smiled. "Psionically reactive material."

"Right. It reacts to thoughts and emotions, right?"

"Oh, _yes_. They say with enough practice you can paint entire mindscapes with it. Only fifty florints."

"How much is that in United Earth credits? Never mind. Jonsson, will you quit thinking with your _stomach_? We're on an alien world with _tons_ of neat stuff, and you're focusing on, what, where the nearest shish-ka-bob stand is?"

The portly crewman didn't seem to be listening, instead he frowned and stared at the dark space between two nearby buildings. "There's something weird in that alley..."

"Yes, it's called garbage. Now, these pearls, do they-"

He ignored her, heading over to where he had seen something pale against the darkness of the shadows caused by the buildings, frowning. Reaching the alley he stared into it, wondering if maybe he was making the classic movie mistake of walking into the poorly lit cellar alone and armed only with a flashlight. Only, he didn't _have_ a flashlight.

When he saw what was stuffed into where the surprisingly neat garbage dumpsters stood, he promptly turned around to throw up.

…

…

_**USS Heronas, In Orbit, Betazed, Beta Velonna.**_

The desk comms was bleeping.

Trip rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and mused the benefits of rest on a weary mind. _He_ certainly felt better... "Yeah?"

"Captain, we have a call from planetside...local authorities have apparently detained two crew members for questioning."

_Great. Wonderful. Spectacular._

"I'll be right there."

…

He had to pause once to comb his hair before seating himself in the captain's seat, but fortunately the Betazoid face on the other end seemed to care little that the human captain looked a bit disheveled.

"_Captain...Tockir?"_

"Tucker. Speaking?"

The Betazoid nodded. _"I'm First Magistrate Sevasto Pallas, the head of local law enforcement. First let me waylay any fears that you might have for your crewmen, they are not suspected of anything. It appears they stumbled upon a crime scene, and we have conducted an interrogation. It was strictly legal, using no unauthorized mind-reading or emotion detection, and they will be released into your custody shortly."_ The man hesitated, then gave him an apologetic look. _"Unfortunately, their incident has unveiled a great embarrassment of ours, something only our local media has so far acknowledged..."_

Trip resisted the urge to rub the bridge of his nose, and merely nodded in apparent commiseration. "...and you want us to keep it on the down low. We can do that, on a couple of terms..."

…

"Why'd you name the shuttlepod '_Lucian_'?"

Crewman Michelle Henry shrugged, removing the stenciled cut-out she had used to spray-paint the new designation on their one and only transport. "Because _'A True History'_ cracked me the hell up when I was a kid?"

Crewman Bing raised an eyebrow, almost Vulcan-like. "A true what?"

She sighed. "_Honestly_, nobody gets a classical education these days. Look it up. 'A True History', by Lucian. Considered by some to be one of the first science fiction stories, also a very funny satire."

He smirked. "Sure. When you promise to read Kevan Sarko's latest."

"I _refuse_ to read that claptrap. Just because an Andorian painter in antiquity got drunk off of too much ice-wine and added an extra moon as a joke on a still life doesn't mean there's some ancient conspiracy to keep a sacred bloodline of Andorian kings hidden from the galaxy. That kind of thing is just _ridiculous_. Worst part is all those nuts who think it's true, too."

He crouched down by the landing gear. "You really should. It's junk, sure, but junk novels can be a lot of fun. It's an old tradition, really. Did you know the second-highest selling book of the 14th century - after the original Gutenberg bible, of course - was the equivalent of a pornographic dime novel? Not to mention Roman bath-house graffiti. _You're_ the classically educated one, you should _know_ that stuff."

She went to stow away the gear, then returned to the docking berth. "I wish Jonsson was back. He's a total anorak, but he keeps the place clean." To her mild annoyance, Bing was ignoring her. "Hello? Carter?"

"...the rear cargo hatch has been tampered with. Did they park in a bad neighborhood or something?"

Crouching down next to him, she inspected the damage. Apparently the hatch had been bent twice, the second time to mask the damage. "Huh. Doesn't look like it was done with tools. No scuff marks. Weird. Well, scan it, report it and let's get back to work. Ask maintenance to send someone to repair it."

He chuckled. "Down here, we _are_ the maintenance. You fetch the tools and a replacement hatch, I'll write it up and do the repairs. Deal?"

"Deal."

…

* * *

><p>…<p>

_**Sol System, Earth. San Francisco. **_

_**Interplanetary Affairs Ministry, UEG.**_

"Ambassador? I wasn't expecting you today..." Martin Soeder held out a hand, showing the slim, blue-skinned Andorian ambassador to a seat.

The ambassador, Dufelas, smiled politely and seated herself...itself...damn, what _was_ the name of the...ah, whatever,. Andorians didn't really care if you put their _specific_ gender in one of the more common two. "I'm quite aware of that, and I apologize if my appearance here is in any way inconveniencing you. But I do believe I have an idea that may see you through the day with a smile."

Soeder leaned back. "No inconvenience, really. For all our claims to be approaching allies in these war-times, we've had so little success on the diplomatic end that we're frankly not having much to _do _lately. The _Romulans_ certainly don't want to talk to us. The nuclear assaults on colonies and boomer convoys have shown us _that_ much."

"Yes..." Dufelas pursed her lips thoughtfully. "It occurs to me that the current state of the Coalition is somewhat...fractured."

He almost barked a laugh at that. Fractured was the diplomatic way of saying it had almost cracked wide open long before it had a chance to become a reality. It was still there on paper, but in truth it was Earth against the Romulans alone. Andoria was busy patrolling their borders for increased Orion piracy and Klingon raiders, the Tellarites were busy with the same as well as occasional skirmishes with some barely known species calling themselves Carashans or something similar, and Coridan had shut down their borders entirely for fear of further attacks from the Romulans.

As for the Vulcans, they were quite busy with some kind of internal political purge. Their shield technology _had_ helped, as would the new engine modifications brought on by the experimental Buran-class ships, but the Romulans didn't fight _fair_. Hit and run tactics, nuclear bombarding of civilian outposts from orbit, sabotage, funding Orion pirate and slaver cartels and Klingon rogue elements...it was more of a hot and cold war both, with no clear frontlines, no real battles apart from the occasional failed or successful ambush, and through it all that stony silence to all overtures for any kind of response from the enemy.

Thank Buddha the Rommies hadn't figured out cloaking devices for _ships_ yet. If they ever did...

He shuddered. "I think we can _both_ agree to that, ambassador. So what brings you here, then? Ah, where are my manners, would you like some refreshments?"

She shook her head. "No, thank you, but I appreciate the offer. No, I am here on an, ah, _informal_ mission, so to speak, speaking on behalf of..._civilians_."

Soeder frowned. "Civilians?"

"Oh, yes. Sometimes purges in military structure and naval command circles result in highly skilled individuals being left alone and adrift in the blizzards of unemployment. Naturally, such people _would_ be a waste to _squander_..."

He blinked. Was she saying..?

"...and so, a small group of such people came to our offices on Andoria to request that I speak with _your_ government about possibly finding something for them to do. We're _quite_ out of positions for them, and our budget _is_ meager these days..."

Slowly, a smile grew impossible to contain. "I..." he stifled a chuckle, "I _see_. Well now, that certainly _is_ a sin. And, you know, I'm not sure but I think the UEC has asked for civilian contractors to replace all those young men and women leaving the cargo trade to volunteer for Starfleet, and I bet they'd have little trouble accepting such people to help them with, say, beefing up armament, engines, shields, that sort of thing?"

Dufelas raised both eyebrows, and her antennae stood up straight as well. Her smile was both genuine and quite devious. "What a coincidence! Many of these civilians happen to be skilled in such things! My, what a fortuitous way of things..."

Both were grinning now. "Yes. Very fortuitous. And who knows, if some of them gain Earth citizenship, they might even be able to join Starfleet. And if the upgrades are useful, who knows, they might find their way into use by ships-of-the-line as well..."

She fluttered her lashes and put her hand over where he assumed her heart was. "Oh, that would just be _splendid_! You know, perhaps I should take you up on this offer for refreshments, such a grand occasion must call for celebration, does it not?"

He bit his lip to keep down the laughter. "Oh, _yes_. Most definitely..."

It occurred to him that an old Andorian saying was _Never break fast with an ally until his blade is sheathed_. Well, his blade was sheathed. And so was hers. Now he just had to convince Starfleet that these Andorian 'civilian observers' were an asset to be used, not a means to land spies in the fleet...

…

* * *

><p>…<p>

_**Betazed, Beta Velonna.**_

_**Clinic of Dr Herelus Castor.**_

Doctor Castor was tapping his finger idly against his padd and it was beginning to greatly irritate the patient who sat and awaited his attention.

T'Pol raised an eyebrow at the man and glanced at the finger rapping out a faintly off-beat rhythm on the edge of the device as he viewed her initial results.

It would take very little pressure to break the finger in a way that would not leave it impossible to heal. The problem with that was that not only was it a highly unworthy thought to have, it would also risk his skill as a doctor and surgeon, and logically that was harmful to herself as well.

It was also a sign that she was quite the ways from being cured.

Finally he set the padd down and smiled at her. "Well, now. Since you're Vulcan I suppose I can dispense with the usual platitudes and vagaries, and get right down to details. Yes? Good. Your neural pathways are healing nicely at a four-percent ratio, I expect full recovery in a few weeks, as projected at the start. Your convalescence here will be done by the day after tomorrow, and you will be able to return to minor duties for the rest of your healing period.

"There's an _increase_ in your latent telepathic centers, as expected, once we take you off your medication you may find the bond slightly sturdier and easy to access." Castor rubbed the side of his nose, those black on white eyes of his inscrutable. Strange that such an emotionally volatile species, moreso than humans, could be so difficult to read. "Now. How do you _feel_? The truth. I may not be legally allowed to read your _mind_, but I can certainly sense your _emotional_ state. However, I wish to hear it in your own words."

The words were not easily come by. Rarely did she speak of such things other than with priests, and, she was ashamed to admit, all too little with Trip. But if the process was helping as he said it was, then why not? "I _feel_...abandoned. Angry. Resentful. Frustrated."

He nodded. "And do you consider those emotions negative?"

She raised her eyebrow again. "I fail to understand the meaning of putting value judgments on emotional responses."

"That's not quite what I meant. I am aware that your species has...something of an impulse control problem in their natural state, perhaps useful in a primitive culture but not so much in one capable of traveling the stars. And in such a basic state, _all_ emotions are fairly negative. Love becomes obsession, hatred becomes naked rage, joy becomes mania...which you control through your clinging to logic and reason to the point where _that_ becomes your basic state. however, you are not _in_ your basic state."

"That is fairly obvious, considering my presence here."

"Quite, quite." He chuckled. "In any case, for the record, and don't worry, we don't keep permanent records unless the patient wishes to share hers with other physicians off-world...would you mind telling me of the first signs that you were developing a bond with Mr Tucker?"

T'Pol flinched, slightly, but recovered just as quickly. "...that may pose some difficulty. I am not entirely certain just exactly when those signs began."

"I see. I was under the impression that Vulcans generally have the equivalent of the proverbial eidetic memory?"

"Fact and sensory memories are very clear, generally, yes. Childhood memories often prove more difficult."

He made a note on the padd, then nodded. "I see. Emotional memories, then?"

She felt her cheeks heat slightly. "I..."

"Relax, commander. Doctor-patient privilege is quite safe even among us telepaths. I simply put mnemonic blockers on all personal details, not even the most powerful telepath can extract them without my permission. Not without killing me." His smile faded. "You have to understand that among a species of telepaths and empaths, we of the medical professions take our vows _extremely_ seriously."

She mulled it over. In truth, the doctor already knew much of her emotional state, which meant that any shame found in revealing such personal details was moot. Still, sixty years of cultural indoctrination did not go away overnight. There was an actual physical sensation of pain in her lower abdomen as she slowly gathered the courage to speak of it out loud. "We are..._not_ as skilled with emotional memories. But I would say my first conscious memory of having..._amorous_...inclinations towards Trip-"

"Interesting."

She narrowed her eyes with barely concealed frustration at him. "Please do not interrupt. I am finding this quite difficult as it is."

"A thousand pardons, commander, I just found it telling that in his presence you constantly refer to him as captain Tucker, but you just used his personal nickname instead."

"I see. However, if you would refrain from further interruptions, perhaps I may continue?"

"By all means, continue."

T'Pol took a surreptitious deep breath. Then she told him.

All of it.

It took quite some time before she was finished, and she found the more she told, the more at peace she felt. The doctor didn't judge, didn't frown, he merely listened and occasionally motioned for her to keep going.

Finally, she was done. She felt...empty. In a most satisfactory manner.

Doctor Castor mulled over the information, and then nodded. "Interesting. I wish to ask your permission to use a fairly debated technique sometimes used by your _own_ species, though rarely. You will be given a temporary neural suppressor which dampens conscious control of your equivalent of the amygdala. It will, in essence, bring out every single suppressed emotion you have."

She felt her cheek twitch slightly. How to put this... "What would be the usefulness of such a technique?"

The Betazed doctor shrugged, spreading his hands in supplication. "It is a _temporary_ state. The suppressor is active for only an hour, and the attempt would be made in a sturdily insulated padded chamber with little chance for you to injure yourself or your surroundings. If you wish we can even supply you with a straitjacket. As for the usefulness, it is - how do the humans put it - ah, yes. 'letting off steam'. Vulcans do so extremely rarely, I believe? Yes, quite. In short, all the piled up stress and anger and frustration would be let loose, temporarily. Naturally, any such treatment will be done later, once your regeneration is within safe parameters and cannot be halted. It would also allow you to practice, once the suppressor has worked for a little while, your emotional control."

His argument was logical. But she did not yet consider herself stable enough to make such a decision. "May I think about it?"

"Certainly."

…

_To Be Continued..._

…

**A/N (2):** The problems you get from altering your day-rhythm is something I can verify with my very own past experiences. Turning the clock around or going without sleep for a couple days (it's _so_ much fun with deadlines when you're an artist and a customer keeps asking for something more soul-deadening _each_ and _every_ motherflipping time you present him with what he asked for _last_ time...what, me bitter?) can very easily set your body in a sort of downward spiral that often ends with total body collapse. Add to this that once you try to start on the path to _regular_ hours, the body simply will. _Not_. Cooperate. At least not at first.

The many nights I've gone without sleep entirely just because my body got used to sleeping on a 26-4 rhythm (26 hours awake, 4 hours sleep) are numerous. And no, that's not really enough sleep deprivation to get hallucinations. That takes a lot more to start up (and yes, that's also from personal experience).

Humans really _aren't_ all that well-designed, when you stop to think about it...

Oh, and the Betazed names I do by mangling various Greco-Roman references and names, much like they did on the TV-shows.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **Ah, end-of-term exams. What fun. Pardon me while I smash my head into the nearby wall. Don't worry, it's solid concrete under the wallpaper, it can take it...

Also, Skyrim. Damn it. Like my spare time wasn't precious enough...

**Disclaimer:** The opinions of an arrogant Betazoid (medical professional or other) are not necessarily the opinions of the author. Smug telepath bastards...

…

…

_**Day 3**_

_**Betazed, Beta Velonna**_

_**Planetary Civilian Authority, Chief Magistrate's Offices, Mortuary**_

"What kind of monster could _do_ something like this?"

The Betazoid in the somewhat ostentatious uniform raised his eyebrow in an almost Vulcan fashion. "That would be the problem, wouldn't it? We have no idea."

Trip leaned forward, mildly nauseated. He'd seen dead people before, the last year alone filling his quota for it, but _this_...

Someone had systematically broken every bone in the victim's body. Skull, jaw, arm-bones, clavicles, ribs, hips, leg-bones, toes, fingers...at some point it went beyond vicious and entered territory that was just plain _twisted_. "And you're saying you have no leads whatsoever? _None_?"

Magistrate Croilus squirmed slightly. "None. It's...getting bad. The first victim was about two months ago, in the xeno quarters. A local girl, working as waitress in a bar primarily tending to xenos... We thought it was just some lover's spat. However, our finest telepaths and psychometrists have done everything they can, but...nothing. It's as if the killer is shielded against extrasensory perception in the first place. Not to mention strong enough to do _this_."

Trip nodded. "So it's pretty obviously not a local. No offense, but I'm pretty sure you guys are no tougher on average than us humans."

"None taken. Unfortunately, that's where our leads stop. Finger prints have proven useless, our standard methods...I hate to admit it, but we've grown complacent. When all you usually need to find a killer is to read the sub-conscious memories of any nearby witnesses, deductive skills tend to go on the back-burner. Which is why I'm allowing outsiders such as yourself to consult."

"So you don't know any alien species that could have done this?"

The magistrate sat down, heavily. "None. The only ones physically strong enough that I can think of would be male Orions, but..."

"But they're seven feet tall and bright green. Yeah, not exactly subtle enough to get away with something like this. You mentioned telepathic shielding?"

Croilus put his hands on his face and rubbed his cheek bones, a typical sign of tension headaches. "And that's _another_ thing. There are only two species we know of that have such features. Vulcans and Betazoid. But...Betazoid rarely kill. The psychic backlash is quite painful. _This_ kind of killing, though? Out of the question. The very act would drive any one of us catatonic. As for Vulcans...well, I think you understand why we struck them from our list of suspects."

Trip frowned. "Actually, that's...well, don't let anyone know I told you this, but there are times when a Vulcan can become aggressive and violent."

The magistrate snorted. "Oh, please. Don't tell me you've heard those ridiculous rumors about their sexual cycle."

Trip stepped away from the mortuary bench, rubbing the back of his neck. "Not what I'm thinking of. And if it was, _this_ wouldn't be the result. But even the kind of circumstances I'm thinking of aren't _this_ bad, and they don't get _this_ strong. So you're right about crossing them off the list."

There was an awkward moment of sorts, and then Croilus sighed. "I suppose I might as well say it outright; we're stuck. One reason I contacted you and then agreed to your request is because I wanted a fresh perspective. Apparently that wasn't enough."

Trip poked the inside of his cheek with his tongue, then nodded. "I can understand your frustration. Something like this..." He paused. "Anyway, I'll grab my wayward crewmen on the way out, and I can send a little discrete call to some people I know about any leads or similar cases off-world, just in case. How's that sound?"

"Most adequate, captain."

…

As the humans left the building, Croilus went back to studying the files. He'd shared them with Captain Tucker as well, seeing as there was little reason to suspect he'd misuse them. Humans had made quite the name for themselves in the past ten or so cycles since the Betazoid had first heard of them, and though they seemed optimistic to the point of foolhardiness regarding their odds in the very hostile universe, they also seemed trustworthy.

Maybe someday their two systems would be true allies. If only they weren't so deeply in bed with the Vulcans. Distasteful bunch, those. Granted, he mainly felt so because of old prejudice instilled in him as a boy. Vulcans were one of the few species who could not be easily read, and this scared many of his people, who were used to at least being able to sense emotions. In his own case he'd started to question those beliefs after speaking to an older intelligence agent who had served as close quarter combat trainer at the magistrate academy. The man had once been forced to power through a Vulcan's mental shields, and had almost died in the attempt, mainly because of the emotional backlash that had welled out.

So. Vulcans. Logical and coldly unemotional, at least on the surface. Which was odd considering how deeply involved they had gotten with humans, who were barefacedly emotional and _often_ irrational.

He supposed it was true what they said; opposites attract.

…

* * *

><p>…<p>

**USS _Heronas_. In standard orbit.**

"...my sunny Valentine..." Crewman Kelly Danvers hummed softly to herself as she crawled down the Jeffries tube, toolkit firmly affixed to her waist. The jumpsuits everyone had worn up until about four months ago would have been less liable to snag on anything, but they also lacked such useful things as...well...belts. While the new uniforms were only slightly more complex with their tucked-in slacks and tight jackets, the belts had been a godsend.

Also, the thicker piping on the shoulders denoting specialty. She liked that detail. Before, you had to get up close to see if someone was red Engineering or pale blue Science, or even the bright gold of Command. Now you could tell from a distance.

She paused by a conduit junction, pulled out a small device, switched it on and held it up to the junction long enough to get a reading. Huh. Off by .056 percent. Acceptable, but not perfect. Perfect was pretty, as her dad used to say.

Taking out another small tool she switched to a song she knew her father would disapprove of her knowing. "...oh, I knew a guy in Kalamazoo, he had legs up to here and said _I love you,_ but me I'm a rambling, gambli-"

There was a sharp crunching _snap_, and the quiet singing ceased forever.

Then came several more snaps and thumps, which continued for some time.

…

* * *

><p>…<p>

**Offices of Herelus Castor (MD)**

"...if you agree, her convalescence can be shortened for some time. She may even return to light duties tomorrow."

Trip frowned. "I thought you said the technique was new and experimental. Has anyone ever used it on a Vulcan?"

Doctor Castor's cheek twitched slightly in irritation. "Well, yes it is, and no, they haven't. But _really_, it's _highly_ efficient. I guarantee it."

The frown deepened. "_No_. Absolutely not. I will not jeopardize the health and sanity of my – of my first officer. Not a chance."

Castor sighed, as if he'd made up his mind about something. "...I can't believe I'm _doing_ this. Breaking doctor-patient confidentiality is _so_ gauche. And unethical. And illegal. But in this case, considering the bond..."

He explained, and Trip found his firm doubt and resolution begin to waver in this onslaught of facts and reason. He was starting to understand just _why_ the Vulcans detested these people. At least the Vulcans knew being right was its _own_ reward, whereas the Betazoid, being openly emotional, _reveled_ in it. All the logic, none of the manners...and through it all that smug, self-righteous smirking satisfaction at always being _right_...

But then, it was easy to always be right when you already knew what people were thinking.

…

T'Pol had considered the offer of the treatment for half a day before finally accepting. Usually, such a decision would be mulled over for less time, a single hour of meditation would generally suffice. This time, however...

It _frightened_ her. She disliked admitting to such an emotional response, but it was the truth. The thought of shutting down all emotional barriers, to truly let _loose_ everything she had spend a lifetime to master...it was most disconcerting. Not least considering the two times her emotions had been allowed free reign had been so disturbing. Her Trellium-D poisoning aboard the Seleya, for one, in which her paranoia and resentments had been given total freedom for a brief time. Or her infection that had caused a faux-Pon Farr that had almost shamed her before the entire crew of the Enterprise, not to mention how she had apparently been caught heading towards Engineering. More than four males in her vicinity in such a far gone state, and none of _them_ had been interesting enough.

The fact that she had somehow _known_ he was there at the time was something she still wondered why she had missed. In hindsight it was a blatant sign of a mating bond slowly being formed. Her later actions had only solidified it.

...or had she known? Subconsciously? Perhaps. Matters of emotions were murky and indecipherable, irrational and disturbing.

Which, with a little luck, would be less so following this experiment of doctor Castor. Frightening though it was, the thought of being able to truly _know_ what her subconscious was keeping from her was very enticing.

Almost agreeable.

_As long as Trip doesn't know._

…

* * *

><p>…<p>

**Sol, Earth. Starfleet Headquarters, San Francisco Bay.**

"All rise." The admiral's aide raised his hand to his mouth and blew the antiquated high-pitched whistle as Fleet Admiral Vicente entered through the office door. The assembled admiralty rose dutifully, murmuring greetings, and then seated themselves along with their immediate superior.

Vicente, a huge, West-African man with an accent brought on from years at Oxford, gave them all a brief, humorless smile and then brought out a padd from the stack at his seat. "Right. Now that's over with, let's get down to business."

A few scattered chuckles were heard at this, the fleet admiral was never one for overly long formalities or socializing. Admiral Wycomb opened.

"First things first, the Romulan front. A UEC freighter convoy was struck by a carrier group day before yesterday, four ships destroyed, two managed to get away. All in all, ninety-seven civilian crew and officers lost. The _Nimitz_ reports harrying a group of Birds-of-Prey in the Taring system, two confirmed kills and only three crew member casualties on our side."

Grim smiles spread at this news. The _Nimitz_ was an old-school Intrepid-class, if an old clunker like that had survived an ambush and taken out two gunships on its own that meant the new shields were more than worth the effort installing them had brought.

"In other news, the Coridan sector officially declared their sector blockaded against all non-sanctioned traffic last week, which is a pretty sure sign the Rommies have gotten to them somehow. We suspect minor terrorist attacks have been carried out against civilian targets, hospitals, mercantile centers, residential areas, things like that. We can't confirm, since...well, they officially declared their sector blockaded against all non-sanctioned traffic, and that means _us_."

Vicente nodded. "So noted. Even so, that's a fairly quiet week so far. Home front?"

Admiral Lacroix cleared his throat. "Yes, ah, four items of interest. First, UEC reports that the new, ah, 'exchange officers' have worked out quite well on the, uh, 'training facilities' at Lake Eerie. A full report on various suggestions given by them has been sent to the Daystrom Institute and Emory Industrial via the usual way. We expect to see a full review next week. In the meantime the general recommendation is that the 'exchange officers' be drafted into Starfleet after being sent through a brief citizenship program."

He looked at the bullet points again. "Second, we have another petition from the Tellarite Commerce Authority to grant them lone trading rights with new human colonies, which is the dumbest thing I ever heard. Granted, the _secondary_ petition sent along with it, ah, has a few _interesting_ points we perhaps should peruse privately later."

This was code for 'your eyes only', and several of the admiralty assembled peered at their padds and made notes.

Lacroix almost sighed. The cloak and dagger routine was really going too far. Even here, at the heart of Starfleet they spoke in code and riddles and subtleties, for fear that the Romulans were hiding in the potted plants. Then he picked up a small device, activated it, and put the padd down. "Right. Now _that's_ over with, item three point one on the list. If you'll break your personal code keys and insert them into the randomizers?"

There was the sound of several small plastic sheaths being cracked, insertion of encryption code keys and then manual flipping of switches on the clunky-looking security consoles. He waited calmly until all were done.

"Right. Item three point one is a holographic image taken by a security camera on Sandhurst Street on Nova Belarus on the colony Haven. The camera was mostly melted to slag in the nuclear detonation that followed three hours later, but a single footage sequence was recovered. Let me warn you that even for seasoned pros like us, the imagery is...gruesome."

He wasn't being overly sensitive, either. Even Vicente grimaced at the jerky stop-motion sequence in the viewer, as more than a dozen armed, battlesuited aliens arrived on old-fashioned gravity boots, and proceeded to systematically butcher the small population of the colony.

"If I may, you'll note that the Romulans arrived solely to personally kill the local colonists, and it appears the nuclear blast that followed was merely done to wipe out any possible evidence of their physical presence there. Analysts suggest the massacre was performed due to the scattershot structure of the town's infrastructure, a nuke or two probably wouldn't have killed everyone fast enough for comfort...so they came down in person to make sure they got even the children and livestock."

He pointed his little pointer at the image, a red dot appearing on every other admiral's screen in response. "Note the obvious command structure. The Romulans appear to consist of two clearly delineated groups, several large, armored, bare-faced sentients in black body armor who carry out most of the actual killing, and the smaller commanding officers who wear face-concealing helmets. Fl-Int suggests this may be gender dichotomy of some sort, one gender being the commanding one, the other being the brute force. Another theory is that the bigger ones are _not_ Romulans but some kind of sub-species or mercenary muscle."

Admiral Black frowned. "They're _ugly_ is what they are. Looks like a horror movie monster."

Lacroix nodded. "Current code name for these new players is Remans. Say again, Remans. They will be referred to in recorded files, notes and media as Orloks, Schrecks or Kinskis. Interchangeable at whim."

Black chuckled. "Romulans and Remans. All very Roman."

"Well, Fl-Int suggests the Romulans have a much different name for themselves, something something raptor wings or some such pretentious drivel. Much predatory symbolism in their culture. But other than that, their society is very close to something akin to the Roman Empire during the post-Republic days. More cut-throat, though."

There were a few odd looks at this. Most admirals had no clue what a Romulan even _looked_ like, seeing as Section 31 and the commander-in-chief had all agreed to deep classify the true appearance of the enemy until such a time as the reveal could be done without permanently harming the already weakened Coalition. Fortunately, only about ten Starfleet officers and United Earth politicians knew in the first place. Which meant whenever he deliberately let slip little details like these, well...

"Moving on to three point two; the Vulcan purge of undesirable elements have yielded a total of three hundred non-Vulcan spies scattered in government and administration, from janitors up to actual high council aides. Four were placed deep within the Science Review Board merely to discount theories of various kinds. I believe the Daystrom Institute can now re-send their reports of the Enterprise files regarding time travel theories and not get it thrown back in their faces."

He refrained from mentioning just _how_ these spies had managed to infiltrate so deeply. "And that's all for the eyes only section of this briefing, further information will be provided for those in the need-to-know."

He switched the device off and continued on the briefing point that had been playing to any listening devices while the privacy field was deployed, as if he had been spending point three on some ridiculous detailing of providing every starship with automated cooking appliances to remove the need for chefs, the protein resequencers would be far cheaper in the operational costs as well as make longer journeys viable, but...it would still be, ah, _recycled matter_.

Crap, that is.

"...and on to my final point, fourth on the agenda, the revision and possible alteration of current fraternization rules in light of the new five-year mission project for non-frontline vessels..."

…

* * *

><p>…<p>

**Betazoid, Offices of Herelus Castor MD).**

The treatment was simple. A hypodermic spray at the base of her neck, followed by a mild sedative that would wear off in a few minutes, giving the doctor time to distance himself. She had refrained from a straitjacket for several reasons, one being that it would only worsen the paranoia she was sure to experience.

At first it was an almost pleasurable experience. Accompanied by minor visual hallucinations of discoloration of her surroundings as neural pathways shut down, she felt herself first relax, and an almost euphoric state of mind followed.

It didn't last.

As emotions long-buried, long-controlled welled up she found herself reliving every minor grudge, every minor sense of spite, dislike, aggression. Some darker than others. Most of them were petty, selfish, foolish impulses, generally ridiculous, but others, well...some were old. None were conscious ones, as such. All were things that would appear and vanish as quick as a...a thought.

_...I killed him. I am tainted. His blood is on my hands. They have to help me, I cannot function, I am shamed, tainted, I cannot..._

_...how can he cavort with that imbecilic creature, she's merely using him for personal gratification..._

_...if the Captain doesn't stop rambling about gazelles soon I'll bludgeon him to death with his own appendages..._

_...for someone specializing in xenobiology for security purposes, the lieutenant seems entirely unaware of Vulcan hearing. If he mentions my gluteus maximus again, I'll..._

_...how _dare_ he look at her that way..._

_...they're always whispering, gossiping, I hear them all and I wish they'd stop..._

_...I can smell him. He is in Engineering. He is Mine. If they would just get out of my way..._

_...she touched him. She _touched_ him. I will kill her. No, I will make her wish she was dead..._

_...is he saying..._

_...in the showers, my hands around his throat, squeezing..._

_It is not to be. I am unstable. Our bond is a liability to us both. He is alien, I am..._

_...emotional._

_Elizabeth._

She convulsed, then emptied the contents of her stomach onto the floor. Nausea was roiling through her like a Fire Plains storm, emotions overwhelming her conscious control, though she desperately attempted to regain it in some way. This was not...something had to be wrong. The doctor had not told her of this.

_kill_

_kill_

_run_

_kill_

_run_

_kill_

The door opened, and a shape entered. Her focus returned, and her eyes narrowed. Prey. No, an obstacle. The door was open, and...

Her nostrils flared as a familiar scent entered her world. It was _Him_. No. No, no, _no_, no, no. He had to get _away_, she was dangerous, she would...the fool, she had to teach him a _lesson_, teach him not to treat her like a porcelain doll, teach him to-

His hands were cool against her skin, and without thought she leaned into them. All impulses to kill, to commit violence faded. His fingers in her hair were soft, yet callused, rough, yet smooth. His skin so much gentler to the touch than those of home.

"Easy, now...easy...there you are. Come on, focus on my voice. Focus on my thoughts. Can you hear them? Can you-"

_-hear me?-_

_-...yyyeeessss...-_

_-Whoa. That's a new one. Wow. You weren't kidding when you said Vulcan emotions could be intense.-_

_-...ssshhuuut uuuuppp...-_

"Whoa!"

_-Easy, don't...hey, hey, no grabbing. That's not what...get your hands out of my pants, darling, and focus. No, not on that. That's for later. Focus. Focus. Listen to my thoughts. Give me yours._

His insistence was beginning to bother her. What was wrong with mating? Why didn't he want to?

...who was Tiels'a?

...and she was _inside_ him, inside his mind, and he was in hers, and it was nothing like the other times, not the selfish, petty child of Tolaris, not the arrogant cool aloofness of T'Pau, just warmth and comfort and deep, deep...

...oh.

She opened her eyes. "...you _do_ care for me."

Trip gave her a lopsided, sad little smile. "'Course I do. I've been trying to tell you that the whole time."

She continued to stare into those pale, un-Vulcan eyes for what felt like forever, and then...

She frowned. "Why are you here?"

He had the courtesy to blush. "Ah, yeah, about that..."

…

"You _lied_."

The doctor had the good grace to look embarrassed. Not very much so, though. "Yes. I apologize."

"Why?" She was composing herself. For some odd reason it was easy to do so, even though she _should_ be rampaging through the offices even now.

Doctor Castor sighed. "Because it was the last barrier to overcome. Your fear of hurting your bondmate, that is. Throughout the treatment one thing has appeared over and over from you, thoughts broadcast outwardly that _scream_ of a petrifying fear of brutalizing him, even _killing_ him. I dare say the reason you never truly allowed him to get close again was because deep down you feared a repeat of your experience with Trellium-D somehow, that your control would falter and that you _would_ hurt him."

She blinked, but didn't say anything. She merely turned her glare over to Trip, who rubbed the back of his neck and looked appropriately contrite.

"...yeah. What he said. Look, uh, I _know_ you, T'Pol. Not all of you, not yet, though I'd sure _like_ to. But I do know _one_ thing for sure; you _hate_ violence and hurting others. And I also know that...well, let's just say I doubt you'd really hurt me."

She stared at him, then turned her eyes downwards. "...you can't know that."

She said it quietly, almost too quietly for a human to hear, but even so he was right next to her in a heartbeat, turning her face up to meet his eyes. "Yeah. I can."

He turned to look at Castor, who nodded and left the room, giving them privacy. She raised an eyebrow at this.

"He might be able to read our minds, but I still want the semblance of privacy for this. Look, T'Pol. We're...messed up. _Both_ of us. I have things I can't tell you, you have things you won't tell me, you're afraid you'll, I dunno, from the dreams you sent me I kinda think you thought you'd turn into a zombie T'Pol who'd eat my brains or something-"

She frowned faintly in disgust at this simile, but he continued unabated.

"-and I was holding back because I thought you didn't really love me back." He sighed. "It's all really..."

She raised the other brow. "...'messed up'?"

"...yeah."

There was the faintest twitch to the corner of her mouth. "Agreed."

…

Part of Tripwas so nervous he felt like he was sixteen and standing at the front door of his prom date again, adjusting his bad tux and rehearsing what to say. The other part of him was..._exuberant_, as Phlox would've put it. He couldn't grin as widely as the Denobulan, but he sure wanted to. But instead he took a deep breath and said something he'd wanted to say for years.

"Remember when I told you the bond wasn't that big a deal?"

"Yes."

"Well, what I meant was that the bond itself didn't really matter, because I was already in love with you."

She blinked. There was a faint hint of olive to her cheeks, but other than that he might as well have told her the weather outside was pleasant. Through the link, however, the bond that had been sporadic and odd and painful...

He sat down, heavily, on the chair the doctor had vacated. "_Whoa_. You...okay, _ow_. Settle down a bit."

She inclined her head faintly, and he could feel the torrent of emotion abate slightly. "My apologies. It seems the bond in its repaired state is...somewhat too overwhelming for a human."

He grimaced. "It's not _totally_ fixed yet. The doc told me that we'll have to work on it ourselves from now on, but that it won't get any worse. And if, after all, for whatever reason, we decide to sever it..."

Her slightly deepened frown told him everything about how she felt about that idea even before the wave of disapproval that slipped through the bond, and he continued undeterred. "..._if_, I said _if_, you never know what _might_ happen, _if_ that comes to pass it can be done without killing either of us, or causing any great injury. He put in this thinly veiled comment about how Vulcans ought to learn that last trick from them. Personally I kind of agree with you guys. It wouldn't be worth it."

She inclined her head, though she obviously still found the idea of severing the bond to be...distasteful. To say the least. "I see. So..."

He nodded, finishing her unspoken sentence. "...where does that leave us?"

"Yes."

He took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. "I dunno. I'm just happy you're not gonna turn into a walking broccoli because of my screw-up."

"...broccoli is a vegetable." There was a hint of confusion to her statement.

"I know."

"I am not a vegetable." Oh, that was a downright blatant hint of disapproval and faint sense of indignation.

He grinned. "Nope. Though you'd be the prettiest one if you were. You're already green, see."

She glared at him. "I don't find-"

"Relax, T'Pol. It was a joke. See, vegetative state, vegetable, it's an old Earth simile."

"I see. You were mocking me." Her face was becoming a bland mask of Vulcan-ness again, and he wanted to grab her up and kiss her. Only...

"...only a little bit. Mostly I'm happy you're you again. Oh, and I think you might need to brush your teeth."

Her cheeks colored a deep green as she seemed to only now remember that she had thrown up not too long ago, and she rushed out of the room without a single word.

Trip leaned back in the seat and grinned. Yep. This was going to be a lot of fun.

Again.

…

* * *

><p>…<p>

"...Jesus. Jesus, oh God, I never..."

"What is it?" Crewman Pauling poked his head up the Jeffries tube. "You sound like-"

Crewman Farrell shoved past him and rushed to the nearest waste basket, vomiting noisily. Pauling frowned, then went to look for himself just what was so bad. And found the remains of what had once been Kelly Danvers, neatly folded in half and shoved inside the tube. He paled, and backed up a step before slamming the comms on the wall.

"Bridge here."

He thanked the heavens it was Nessler on the other end. Any other voice would have been _wrong_ right now. "We – we found Kelly. She's dead. I...I _think_ she's been _murdered_."

There was no response, only silence for half a heartbeat, then suddenly the Intruder Alert klaxons went off, and bulkheads and doors began to close. Inside the tube, the hatch behind the body closed.

The shadow behind it crawled back into the depths of the ship, having finished here.

For now.


End file.
